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Peter Binoit’s still life:
a brown thrasher perches on the bare limb,
alongside lemons, a mouse nibbles corn.
Yesterday, the day before &
the day before—he fingers
crumbs from his chocolate croissant.
White & yellow-striped cotton
cushion, a wooden chair, Café Mateo
this morning—clatter of forks, spoons,
knives. A rusted voice asks for azúcar.
All means of transportation in Buenos Aires
—on strike—dark coffee cools
in the porcelain cup.
No one is going anywhere.
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